Fade to Black
by lily22
Summary: Vetinari goes blind. This could have a negative effect on his daily activities, result in his death or, much worse, bring about the fall of Ankh Morpork. Efforts will have to be made to fix this... or even to turn it to his advantage.
1. Golden

**Title:** Fade to Black (working title)  
**Fandom:** _Discworld_  
**Characters:** Vetinari, plus Leonard, Drumknott, Vimes, others  
**Warnings:** As usual, I don't bother to factor "common sense" into the fic. Slash? Will there be slash? I dunno. We'll see.  
**Chapter 1:** Golden

* * *

The day Vetinari went blind was a lovely one, an orchestra of sunlight, scored with waving branches and flitting butterflies in mind. If he had seen the plays of the Roundworld, he might've compared the way the flowers came alive under the sun to the way actors, standing patiently immobile in the dark corners of the stage, faces cast down, suddenly sprang into motion at the touch of a spotlight. 

However, Vetinari wasn't exactly one to be called poetic, not in any known sense of the word, and he had never seen a Roundworld play. There was no denying, however, that the day was fair. The sun's rays fell to the Disc, reaching through the windowpane to warm the pale face, the shut eyelids. There were birds chirping.

All in all, not the ideal day on which to fall blind. Or the perfect day, depending on how you looked at it.

As Vetinari stood facing the window, one must wonder what he was feeling, if so strong a word could ever be applied to him. Vetinari had gotten where he was through the facilities of a quick mind and sharp senses, and now one of those senses was lost to him. Now how would he intimidate people with his uncanny ability to notice little details?

The first person Vetinari had thought to inform of this occurrence was Leonard, who could provide sympathy, if not a solution. Unfortunately, the very brilliance that made Leonard one worth consulting was also what made it vital that he be kept inaccessible, because in the wrong hands, all sorts of terrible things might happen.

And there, in essence, was the problem.

If a newly blind man with a game leg could reach Leonard's workshop, well, Vetinari might as well put on his agenda, "4:00—Expect All Sorts of Terrible Things. Offer tea." Vetinari thought about asking Drumknott for help, but today was Wednesday, and Vetinari had only showed Drumknott how to get through the traps on intermittent Mondays, and had advised him never to attempt it while it was snowing. All of Leonard's supplies went through what resembled a one-way dumbwaiter, so Drumknott didn't really need to reach Leonard anyway.

Holding his hands surreptitiously in front of him, Vetinari tried to picture his office as he walked across it. His desk would be coming up, right… about… Where was the darn thing, anyway? Vetinari swallowed. This was harder than he thought it would be. Maybe he really shouldn't attempt—

Ah, there was the desk. Vetinari patted its surface as if it were a beloved pet. He felt for the secret compartment and found that at least where he expected it to be. He was getting the hang of this. Out came a sharp, cold piece of metal. Next, he closed the compartment, checked its surface with his fingertips, and walked slowly onward. He'd just walk back and forth across his office a few times. Not so hard, really, when he was very familiar with his surroundings.

He had a few mishaps with his chair, but soon he was striding about with great confidence, belied only by his hands, which were not at his sides, but stretched slightly forward into the classic I-can't-see-where-I'm-going-and-I-don't-want-to-run-into-things position.

Next he proceeded to the wall. Yes, exactly where I thought it would be, it hasn't run away, exquisite, he thought distractedly, as he applied pressure. The wall swung away from him, and he went in.

A few moments later, he stopped. He had made it past the Pit of Death, which was good. He was quite proud of himself because he was pretty sure he'd accomplished the series of quick jumps, judging by the arrows that completely failed to fly out of the air and skewer him. On the other hand, there was a beam of light at about knee level up ahead which, if broken, would release a large, swinging blade, which Vetinari did not particularly want to meet at the moment. Unfortunately, without his sense of vision, he didn't know how far away it was, exactly. Perhaps the beam of light was here… or maybe it was here, or maybe he had passed it already, or…

Or not, Vetinari thought dryly, as a sudden shift in air currents told him that his continued possession of head and shoulders was being called into serious doubt. He ducked.

Five minutes later, when Vetinari was pretty sure the blade had stopped swinging, he continued on his way. Well, that wasn't so bad, considering. And as long as he made sure to touch the hidden panel at the end of the tunnel, he'd be fine.

Ah.

"Leonard?" he called, rapping on the door before ducking to the side.

The door opened. "My Lord?" said Leonard's familiar voice. "Why are you pressed up against the wall like that?"

"Just in case you had anything dangerous going on," said Vetinari weakly.

"The coast is clear," said Leonard happily. "In fact, I've set up nets so the incident with the model flying machine won't happen again, as you can see…"

"Actually, Leonard," said Vetinari, "I can't."

"Hm?" said Leonard. "Why not? Oh, do come in. Would you like some tea?"

"Yes, thank you," said Vetinari. "Although I'll need you to help me to my seat." Leonard made a puzzled noise, and Vetinari realized that subtlety was not going to work in this case. "I can't see, Leonard. I'm blind."

"Oh," said Leonard. There was stunned silence. Then: "Please come in, my Lord."

"Thank you," said Vetinari, and allowed Leonard to lead him into the workshop.

"Mind your step, oops," said Leonard, as Vetinari picked carefully across the floor and nearly tripped over the easel. "I'm sorry, I had thought to put it there to take advantage of the light…"

Vetinari waved it off and sat on the chair that was offered, gingerly, in case there was anything on it.

"How do my eyes look?"

He felt Leonard lean closer. "Pretty much the same as they always have. They're a bit red." He felt Leonard lean back. "Would you like some more Clears Eyes and Relieves Itching solution? I'm sure I had a dropper somewhere…"

Vetinari thought carefully. "Is there any chance you could make a solution that _colors_ eyes?"

"Like green? I've always thought you'd look nice with golden irises, in particular. In fact I had some small lenses…"

"Not irises, Leonard. The entire eye. Could you make my eyes look… milky, perhaps?"

"Milky, my Lord?"

"Like an extremely bad case of cataracts," Vetinari suggested.

"I could do that. I'd just need to modify the solution a bit…"

"That would be wonderful. And my eyes are completely normal, you say?"

"They're focused a bit high," said Leonard, after some consideration.

"I was hoping to compensate for the distance between your mouth and your eyes. If I had just directed my eyes towards the source of your voice, I would have appeared to be staring at your lips, which would not have been quite normal. How's this?"

"Perfect. Although right now your eyes are moving a bit too fast."

"You _are_ leaning in, then?" said Vetinari.

"Yes, but when I lean in, my face goes quite a lot farther forward than it goes down. Right now your eyes have moved too far down. You seem to be looking at my nose…"

"I can see I'll need a lot more practice," sighed Vetinari. "Would you mind leaning in and out some more, so I can get used to it?"

* * *

"Commander Vimes to see you, sir," said Drumknott, barely minutes after Vetinari had settled himself back into his desk. 

"Capital." Vetinari looked up suddenly. Drumknott had the unsettling feeling that Vetinari's gaze was piercing through him and focusing several inches behind his head. "By the way, Drumknott, did you say that you had an uncle? An optometrist, I believe?"

"Er, yes," said Drumknott, who couldn't remember mentioning such a thing.

"Is he good at what he does?" Vetinari asked.

"Yes," Drumknott said cautiously. "The best, even, it's been said."

"Ah," said Vetinari. "In that case, would you ask him to come pay me a visit? As soon as possible."

"Certainly, my Lord." Drumknott paused. "There isn't, ah, anything wrong with your eyes, is there?"

The moments passed in silence, dragging their feet as they went, as Vetinari looked perfectly blank. "Not at all, Drumknott," he said finally. "You said the Commander was waiting?"


	2. White

**Title:** Fade to Black (working title)  
**Fandom:** _Discworld_  
**Characters:** Vetinari, plus Leonard, Drumknott, Vimes, others  
**Warnings:** As usual, I don't bother to factor "common sense" into the fic. Slash? Will there be slash? I dunno. We'll see.  
**Chapter 2:** White

* * *

"Is that so, Doctor?" Vetinari asked calmly.

Drumknott's uncle swallowed heavily. For good measure, he swallowed again. "Yes, my Lord. I'm afraid so."

Vetinari closed his eyes and sighed. "Completely blind. My word. This is very tragic," he said seriously. This alone should have been warning enough to anyone watching that something was afoot.

"Well, thank you, Doctor," Vetinari said, standing. Drumknott, waiting nearby, was not prepared to catch a stumbling Vetinari as he tripped over—what? A loose carpet fiber? A misplaced photon? Thin air? Shock was the only thing that prevented Drumknott from dropping his employer right there and then.

"Oh dear," said Vetinari. "I feel I should have appreciated my eyesight a bit more while I still had it."

"Yes, my Lord," said Drumknott, whose mind had gone completely blank.

"I must be more careful in the future," Vetinari added, straightening.

"Yes, my Lord."

"Do lead me out, Drumknott," said Vetinari. "I imagine everything will be a bit more difficult now that I can't see."

"Yes, my Lord."

"Oh dear, what have I run into?" Vetinari asked, stopping suddenly.

"Er," said Drumknott. "It appears to be a lamp, my Lord."

"A lamp. How nice."

"Yes, my Lord," said Drumknott, who at this point would have agreed to anything. "The door, my Lord," he added helpfully, when Vetinari completely failed to walk through it. "Right in front of you, my Lord."

"Is it really?" Vetinari asked. "Thank you, Drumknott."

"Yes, my Lord."

Nobody noticed Vetinari slip the small phial in his pocket, not even the half-dozen spies, hiding in various closets and lurking on conveniently located ledges right outside the windows.

* * *

Vimes walked into the Oblong Office for the second time in as many days, looked into Vetinari's eyes, aimed his crossbow between them, and let the bolt fly.

Vetinari's hand snapped out like a snake, grabbing the arrow and bringing it down to the desk. He caught it too soon, though, and the gesture was ruined by the blood dripping down his palm, where his hand had met sharp arrowhead rather than the expected wooden shaft.

Note to self, Vetinari thought, work on timing. Or rather, work on not being in the same room as Vimes without full use of eyesight.

"_Nil mortifi, sine lucre, _sir Samuel," Vetinari said cheerfully.

"I wasn't trying to _kill _you, you ba—you. I knew you were going to catch it. You're not really blind, are you?"

"My word, where did you hear about this?"

"Do you think I'm bloo—do you think I'm stupid?" Vimes snapped. "You visit an eye doctor in the middle of town when you could've just had him brought to your office? Why not just paint "I'M BLIND, SIGNED PATRICIAN" in the sky?"

"Hmm," said Vetinari. "That _was_ rather foolish of me, wasn't it?"

"Foolish?" Vimes practically shrieked. Saying Vetinari was foolish was like saying a square was round. Bits would have to be broken off before that happened, preferably other people's bits. "And what about those da—darn ridiculous eyes of yours? Is that even naturally possible without using paint?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about, I'm sure," said Vetinari, who was smiling. His desk was completely cleared of paperwork. Instead someone had drawn on it a circle in white chalk. There was a cup of water in it.

"Your eyes!" shouted Vimes. "If they get any whiter they'll be glowing! You want to tell me that's normal?"

"Pleased don't make fun of a crippled man, sir Samuel—" Vetinari began.

"_Crippled_?" The analogy of the circle fit in here as well. "You're trying to convince me that you, Vetinari, are crippled?"

Several minutes later, Vimes stopped laughing. Vetinari waited patiently as Vimes finished, holding his palm tightly and wondering if this was considered a hostage situation and, if not, whether he could leave for a moment to find a bandage.

"And what's with that blo—stupid circle on your desk?" Vimes asked finally.

"I am told there's a marker of some sort," Vetinari said. "If they always put my cup in the same place, it will be easier for me to find it, after all."

"Vetinari needs help finding his own bloody cup?" Vimes snarled, apparently having given up on censoring himself. "You can't be serious."

"I am always serious, sir Samuel. If there wasn't a point you wanted to make, I would like to get this cut cleaned up. Paperwork does take so much longer now that I need someone to read it to me…"

Without warning, Vimes suddenly flicked his fingers in Vetinari's face. To Vetinari's credit, he didn't even flinch, instead continuing his monologue as if he hadn't noticed, "…and as you know there is quite a lot of it to take care of. Speaking of which, I don't suppose you have the wages—"

"I'm still not going to believe you're actually blind," said Vimes.

"Capital," said Vetinari. "In that case I suppose I can trust you not to tell anyone about this?"

"Hah!" said Vimes. "Maybe I really won't tell anybody. That would serve you right."

"That's the spirit, Commander," said Vetinari, pouring the water over his cut.

Vimes stared at the water running over Vetinari's unflinching hand, and couldn't resist giving the door a good slam on his way out.


	3. Indigo

**Title:** Fade to Black (working title)  
**Chapter 3: **Indigo

* * *

News did not so much get out as… _spread_. There was no way for it to jump from the palace to the general populace of Ankh-Morpork, but it did so anyway; once it had, it took off at a run.

At about what he judged to be the right time, Lord Vetinari made a trip to the Times office to have a few words with Mr. de Worde about the different types of news: which kinds people wanted to hear, which kinds had figurative Do Not Disturb signs hanging on their doors, and most importantly, all the regrettable things that might happen to someone who confused the two.

Vetinari knew that that alone wouldn't stop de Worde; in fact, he'd rather been counting on it.

The first Assassin that night decided to get a head start on things and arrived not long after sunset. He was not expecting the job to be easy. He was almost dead wrong; in fact it was the simplest job he'd ever had, including that one washing dishes at a small café. The wall took a matter of seconds to climb; the window was unguarded and partially open. All he really had to do was slither right into the waiting knife and then shout indistinctly into a muffling forearm.

"The hand will be okay if you go immediately to the doctor," said Lord Vetinari, releasing the Assassin's mouth.

"How would you know?" the Assassin wailed, clutching his wrist, trying to stem the flow of blood to his palm. "You're blind!"

"It will be _more_ okay if you go now," amended Vetinari, "than if you stay here."

The Assassin gave up and fled.

That was the first black-clothed figure to slip through his window that night. The second was none than Sir Samuel Vimes, and he literally slipped in, loose tiles clattering behind him. He was quickly coming to realize that this had not been the best of ideas. He was also trying very hard not to swallow.

"To whose throat am I pressing this dagger?" Vetinari's voice inquired softly. Vimes could've sworn the other man was laughing.

"Like hell you don't know," Vimes snarled. "If you didn't know, would I be alive right now?"

"Ah, Commander Vimes," said Vetinari. There was a slight pause. "What makes you think I would spare _you_?"

Vimes didn't have an answer for that.

"As it is, Sir Samuel, this is your second attempt on my life in the past week." A pause. "And it's not even Thursday."

"I wasn't trying to _kill_ you," said Vimes. "It's not like you'd ever stay dead."

"Testing my blindness again?" Vetinari asked. "That excuse only works so many times, your Grace."

"Stop pulling the titles on me!" Vimes yelled. "Now are you going to take that knife away, or are you going to kill me? Make up your mind already!"

Vetinari considered this. "A difficult decision," he said finally.

* * *

Vetinari didn't require any of his clerks to follow his hours, although it would've saved a lot of money on room and board. Practically all of it, in fact, if they also followed his meal plans.

So, unlike Lord Vetinari, Drumknott made it a habit to actually sleep at night. However, Drumknott was a light sleeper, and woke at the slightest noise.

Usually when someone is said to be a light sleeper, there are exceptions. People, when sleeping, unconsciously file certain noises away as ordinary, such as the sound of a spouse getting a drink of water, or the tree by the window tapping its branches in the wind. As such, one could sleep through a stampede, once one's subconscious got used to it. This was not the case for Drumknott, who was used to sleeping in absolute silence, and really did wake at the slightest noise. The silence was due in part to his lack of a spouse or a tree, but more to the placement of his bedroom, that is, a few halls down from Lord Vetinari's office. When it came to locations that terrified people into silence, the Oblong Office beat out libraries, temples, and even insurance offices. It wasn't like Lord Vetinari himself made any noise either, although he was known to have the occasional muted conversation with mysterious guests who preferred not to come during the day. Drumknott woke for those, and stared at his ceiling until the guest either left or started screaming (Drumknott always had his clothes ready in case of the latter).

Drumknott also woke for assassination attempts.

Of course there would be more now; Drumknott had seen the brief note in the paper, regarding the very faint, unlikely, and no doubt groundless possibility that maybe the Patrician had, only in recent times, become, or was gradually becoming, very slightly and probably only temporarily… It was like a train wreck, a long string of nervous gibberish culminating in the final five-letter word.

Drumknott thought realistically. He knew that he was no fighter, and that he could do nothing that Vetinari himself couldn't, even blind. Even so…

By the time Drumknott had made it to the Patrician's office, it was over, and a black-clothed figure was fleeing down the hallway. As he entered, Vetinari looked up, met his gaze briefly, and gave a small nod: everything is taken care of, no need to concern yourself…

That had been an hour ago. Vetinari had worked at his desk while Drumknott discreetly wiped up the blood, and hadn't even looked up as Drumknott made an even more discreet exit with an empty teacup and a bloody rag. It took Drumknott a while to remember that Vetinari couldn't, in fact, see, and the question of what Vetinari had been working blindly on followed Drumknott all the way to the kitchen.

Patrick the cook was down there, chopping up carrots for no apparent reason at three in the morning. Drumknott marked it off as a mother thing. Like most of the other staff, he'd come with the palace, had "always been there"—in fact a suspicious amount of the palace workers had "always been there", even though by dint of pure logic, _someone_ had to have arrived before someone else—and pretty much everyone called him Mum. It seemed like the thing to do with the senior cook, even if he wasn't plump or rosy-cheeked or exceptionally jolly, even if he had never in his life said something like, "Oh, look at the poor thing, he's skin and bones! I just want to hug him and feed him until he's circular!"—this display of restraint, one tended to think, was probably because someone had done that to _him _in the past. It was a bit of a strain on the scullery maids who'd met his name before his person, but they got used to it. "Mum, have we got any more of that chicken stuff?" "The faucet's broken, Mum. Look, the water isn't coming aaargh."

Gender apparently had nothing to do with it.

In any case, Drumknott preferred to call him Patrick. It seemed more polite.

"Patrick, could you make his Lordship some more tea?" Drumknott asked, washing out the rag and leaving the cup and saucer in the sink.

"Sure." Patrick momentarily left the carrots in peace. "Everything okay up there?" he added as an afterthought.

"What?" Drumknott said distractedly, watching the blood flow down the drain. "Oh yes. Fine. His Lordship is being secretive as usual."

"Not too secretive though," said Patrick. "Everyone's been wondering about, you know, the rumors. True? How'd people find out?"

"Yeah, funny thing," said Drumknott weakly.

Patrick stared at Drumknott's back, but pressed on. "I've been here a long time," he said, "and I know anything we know, it's because His Lordship wants us to know."

"And why would he want them to know?" Drumknott swallowed, but the anxiety that had been with him all day now clamored to be let out. "The guilds might decide that he's no longer fit for the office. There have been precedents. He could just as easily have carried on without letting anyone find out. Why take the risk?"

"I'm sure he has some sort of plan," Patrick suggested. "Doesn't he usually?"

"I hope he does," said Drumknott.

"Shouldn't you know?" asked Patrick. "You're with him all the time."

"He wouldn't tell _me_. He doesn't trust me very much."

"He doesn't trust anyone very much, I should think," said Patrick.

"I'm his head clerk," said Drumknott. "I do pretty much everything for him. How hard would it be for him to trust me a little?"

"His Lordship trusted a clerk once, and guess what?" Patrick shrugged. "It turned out to be Lupine Wonse. After that, how do you expect him to trust _you_?"

"I know about Wonse. I know. And I'm _not him_. Lord Vetinari knows that. He knows everything. He knows things about me I wouldn't understand if he explained them. With diagrams. So how can he not know how much I… how impossible it would be for… that I'd never betray him? How does he not understand?"

"He probably does understand," said Patrick. "But I don't think you realize just how much trust he put in Lupine Wonse."

* * *

Vimes rubbed his throat while Vetinari lit a candle. By the flickering light, Vimes ran his gaze across the office and found it halted by the desk.

"What're those papers?" Vimes asked. He didn't bother pointing them out. They were the only papers on the desk. There were dots on them. Apparently his Lordship had been _vexed_ and had decided to take out his frustrations by stabbing the paper repeatedly with his pen. Or his knife.

Vetinari walked over, flipped over a sheet, and held it out for Vimes to inspect. "A certain pattern of bumps," he said, "might denote a letter or sound. I hope to teach assistants to transcribe paperwork into this system, so I can read it by feel. More to the point," he continued, when Vimes had taken the paper from his hands, "I believe you were going to explain your presence here this fine dead-of-the-night."

"Just taking a stroll. Wanted to clear my head," Vimes muttered sarcastically.

"Please keep in mind that you just came through my window in the middle of the night," Vetinari added. "Please also keep in mind that this office gets more Assassins than rodents these days. There is good reason for me to be suspicious."

"I just fell in, okay?" said Vimes. He looked extremely angry, or was that… embarrassed? "It was the loose tiles right next to the camouflaged hole right next to the caltrops. I wasn't actually planning to come in."

"I'm glad to hear that they work. Of course, this leads us to an even more interesting question, which is to say, why were you on the roof?"

"If you must know," said Vimes, "I knew you'd be an Assassin-magnet tonight, so I decided to, you know. Check in."

This caught Vetinari by surprise. He blinked. (Vimes surreptitiously peered through the window. Nope, sky wasn't raining fiery comets. No sign of Armageddon just yet.)

"You realized that these Assassins would be licensed, didn't you?" said Vetinari finally.

"Some of them," Vimes shrugged.

"And that you, as Commander Vimes of the Watch, are not legally obligated to or in fact excused from making an attempt to stop them?"

Vimes snorted. "That doesn't mean I, as Sam Vimes, can't sit on the roof for one night. The Palace is technically a public monument, isn't it? And that doesn't mean Carrot, as friend to every living creature in Ankh-Morpork, can't ask some of his gargoyle friends to wait here and make things difficult for the Assassins, or to spit feathers at them or, or something!"

"Vimes," said Vetinari carefully. "Are you saying that you have been stopping licensed Assassins—Assassins from the Guild of Assassins, that is, with contracts and so on—from reaching my window? All night?"

"It's perfectly legal," Vimes said defensively. "People hire bodyguards all the time."

"Are you saying that the City Watch has decided to become my bodyguard?" Vetinari asked.

"No," said Vimes. "I'm saying _I_'m your bodyguard. For tonight," he added quickly. "Until sunrise. After that, you're on your own."

"I'm… touched, Vimes. I—" Vetinari stopped, cleared his throat.

He sat behind his desk, and Vimes automatically stared at that point over the other man's shoulder. He couldn't help it when his gaze automatically drifted to Vetinari's face, however, to his eyes. They had been frightening before, but now that they were pure, shockingly white, they only looked… odd.

"Here, Your Grace," said Vetinari, running his fingers along the bottom of his desk and stopping at a slight catch. "I've something to show you." He slid the drawer open, pulled out a small, green-tinted phial, and again held it up for Vimes's inspection.

"Let me guess," said Vimes. "You saw a doctor, he prescribed you some pills, and now they're going to fix everything."

"That's the idea, yes," said Vetinari.

"Okay, well, you want to know what I think about that? About some magic medicine that's going to restore your eyesight?" Vimes considered slamming his fists on Vetinari's desk. What the heck. It was five in the morning and there were trained Assassins running home with pigeon guts in their hair. This was a special occasion. It would be a waste if he didn't slam his fists. He did so. "That's _bull_," continued Vimes. Vetinari's attentive silence turned icy, but Vimes ignored it. "First of all, if things were that easy, I wouldn't be here right now. I'd just have hit my Protect the Friggin' _Bastard_ of a Patrician button and gone to bed. Second, if you _had_ the pills, why would you let anyoneknow that you were blind at all? It'd be over in a few weeks anyway, right? Why pull half the Guild of Assassins after you? Plus I even _knew_ about the pills! _I _even knew about the pills! If I know about something, I can _guarantee_ it's not going to be true, because it's you! Because you wouldn't let anyone find out, that's just the kind of—"

"Your Grace," Vetinari interrupted. "_Vimes._"

Vimes let out a long breath. "Well?" he said. "The truth is probably too much to ask for, even after I stood outside your window for five hours straight—"

"No one asked you to stand outside my window for five hours straight," Vetinari reminded him.

"Even after that one guy tried to cut off my ear and I had to shove him off the ledge with my forehead—"

"Please, your Grace," Vetinari began.

"What happened to 'Vimes'?" Vimes demanded. He was getting pretty good at staring as well.

"Very well," said Vetinari. "Vimes. I'm calling you Vimes. For tonight. Until sunrise. May I proceed?"

"Can I stop you?" Vimes asked.

"Well, Vimes," said Vetinari. "You are absolutely correct. These pills—" Vetinari shook the phial lightly, "—are completely useless." With a sudden motion, he smashed the phial on the desk, pulling his hand away completely unscathed. Green glass and white pills shook on the desk as Vimes jerked his hands back. "At least," Vetinari amended, "They will not physically fix my eyes. But in the, aha, eyes of the public…"

"You're going to pretend your eyes are better," Vimes said. "And you think they'll believe you."

"Yes," said Vetinari.

"Well, that's useless," said Vimes. "Barely a dozen people even know that you _have_ the pills in the first place."

"It's just as you say," said Vetinari. "But they know. And some people have also heard that I underwent heavy surgery. Some people think I've been drinking a pint of human blood every morning—not that that's a stretch on the imagination for most people here. Whatever they've heard, when my eyesight miraculously improves, no doubt everyone will have a different idea of how it happened, with their cousins' boyfriends' classmates' eyewitness accounts to back it up. Everyone wants to be right, Vimes. If they're worked up enough over _how _it happened, they won't have time to worry about whether or not it actually did, which you and I know is the real question."

Vimes stared. "So you're going to pretend to fix your eyes, and everyone's going to argue over how it happened, and you're just going to go on as before."

"Yes," said Vetinari. "And now that you know my dastardly plan, I'm going to have to ask you to walk the plank. Or at least go home.

Vimes blinked.

"That is to say, do not let me detain you." Vetinari smiled briefly. "Sun's rising."

Halfway home, Vimes stopped. Turning to face the palace, he squinted against the sunrise, and demanded of no one in particular: "Sun's rising? How would _he_ know?"


	4. Green

Drumknott entered the Oblong Office hesitantly, half-hiding a newspaper the way a small child might attempt to cover up the remains of a broken window. "My Lord? You asked for the..." Drumknott shut his eyes, "the headlines?"

"Ah, yes," said Vetinari. "I'm given to understand that the _Times_ does not like to let a good news story slide."

Drumknott chanced opening his eyes briefly. Vetinari did not appear to be kidding. Drumknott swallowed, and held the newspaper up in front of his face. His feet automatically took the recitation stance he remembered from grade school. He straightened his shoulders and fought the urge to clasp his hands behind his back.

"Let us start with the front page, Drumknott," Vetinari suggested, after a few moments. "Does it happen to mention me at all?"

"'Patrician Stabs and Smashes,'" Drumknott read dutifully. He was certain he could see the eyebrows go up, even through the newspaper.

"My word," said Vetinari. "What a violent headline— Am I to assume that it's a headline?"

"Yes, my Lord."

"Above the fold or below it?"

"Above, my Lord."

"_The_ headline, then?"

"Yes, my Lord."

"Approximately how big would you say—"

"My Lord!" Drumknott wailed, then stopped himself.

"My apologies," said Vetinari, sitting back in his chair. "I sometimes let my curiosity carry me away." The tips of his fingers found each other as if pulled by little magnets. "Is there any explanation for such a dramatic statement?"

"It says that you were found... stabbing little holes into several sheets of paper last night. And that you... smashed an unknown phial, scattering shards of glass that a poor maid was forced to clean up."

"How bizarre. I must not have been feeling myself at the time. Did you know about this, Drumknott?"

"No, my Lord."

"No. Yet it is in the paper."

"Yes, my Lord," said Drumknott. It seemed the safest answer.

"Fabricating filler stories, perhaps? Is there anything else?"

"Yes, my Lord."

"A lot?"

"_Yes_, my Lord."

"A slow news day, perhaps. Very well, Drumknott. Please read me the newspaper."

"What, the whole thing?"

"Unless you can recommend a better way to educate the ruler of the city on the happenings within his city. If you'd please."

Drumknott cleared his throat and searched for reserves of energy somewhere deep within him. He felt that he might need them. Really, he had no idea.

* * *

Samuel Vimes did not know where he was. He had been forced into a carriage and carried far, far away from his home. Now he was surrounded on all sides by vicious monsters, and to top it all off, he was wearing tights.

"Relax, Sam," said his wife, giving his hand a brief squeeze under the table. "I'm sure it's not nearly as bad as you're making it out to be. Some polite conversation won't kill you."

"Kidnapped," Vimes muttered, though he kept his voice low. Wouldn't want to embarrass Sybil, after all. "Brought to a foreign place. Held hostage."

"Look, there's Lord Rust. He looks like he's dying to talk to you."

Vimes gave this some thought. "Does the dying come before or after the talking?"

"Sam, please." Another squeeze.

"Can't I check in with Colon and Nobby?" Vimes asked. There was an alarming degree of whine to his voice. "The Commander of the Watch can't neglect his duty for a dinner ceremony."

"They just sent a message, they're doing fine. No one's going to invade Ankh-Morpork."

"The gate might have been stolen. They might get more freak gales."

"I'm sure that even you can't control the weather, dear."

"I could at least help tie things down. What if a flock of vampires descends from Überwald and steals all our cabbage?"

"Vampires don't come in flocks, dear. They come in… oh, what was it. Broods, I think. Like ravens. They do that a lot, you know."

"What, raven?"

"Well, yes, I suppose… But I was thinking brood."

Vimes was in the mood for a little brooding himself. He had read the _Times_ as well, and aside from a discreet article on a series of mysterious deaths in Ankh, pretty much everything else had been about the Patrician's recently erratic behavior. It was inconceivable that Vetinari's dementia (and what else could it be, but some form of madness?) took precedence over deaths in the minds of the public, especially when the causes of the deaths were far from mysterious, unless the reporters at the paper had forgotten what a vampire attack looked like. Vimes had taken to patrolling the posher districts, keeping an ear out for word of black ribboners throwing down the ribbon, but these days Vetinari was the only topic of conversation on the streets, in the Watch house (before Vimes had informally banished it, namely by throwing a teapot into the wall), and even among the nobby portions of society. Vimes had already heard the words, "stabbing and smashing," murmured several times that night, with varying levels of glee, yet not once had anyone bothered to comment on the murders, the vampires, or the possibility that they were next.

"Sam," came Sybil's urgent voice from his side, "there's a pigeon…"

Vimes looked just in time to see the pigeon demonstrate its disdain for polite society. Perhaps the whole night was worth it for the alarmed cries going up around the table at the sight of a mere bird. He could only imagine what the response would have been if it had been an actual vampire. No wonder predators went for the rich people: they were so much easier to pick off.

As Vimes scanned the message, the smile dropped off his face; he could practically hear it clanging to the floor by his feet. The pigeon cooed in the sudden silence as those present at the table took in the expression on Vimes's face, before said face was off running, Vimes dashing out along with it, dropping only a hasty, "I have to go, Sybil," on his way out.

There were a few miffed remarks about rude departures. Then: "Do you really think the Patrician had a run-in with witches?"

Sybil read the pigeon's message quietly, and then frowned. She made a slightly more polite departure than her husband, and hurried after him to the Palace.

* * *

"What a fine city," Vetinari sighed, raising his face to the breeze, lips slightly parted as though to drink in the delicate cocktail of nighttime smog. "Do you know, Drumknott? I've often thought Ankh-Morpork was a little like a clock."

"So you've said, my Lord." A pause. "Perhaps this particular clock would be better observed _close up_?"

"I've had nothing but close-up views lately. What a ruler needs is to step back on occasion and take in the whole panorama. It is a fine sight."

Vetinari leaned forward, and Drumknott instantly leapt up. His hands hovered uselessly, trying to think which part of Vetinari to grab should he careen over the edge. The man did look rather thin, under the moonlight—or perhaps that was just the wind snatching mercilessly at their clothing and hair, pressing them in and tearing them apart all at once. The Patrician hardly seemed to notice it at all.

The people of Ankh-Morpork were spread out below them. _Far_ below them, in fact. From the distance they formed an indistinguishable blob: curious, awed, and uncharacteristically silent. Normally, they should have been shouting out encouragements (though some of these would have been encouragements to jump, granted), but when it was the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork who was teetering all the way up there, they weren't quite sure what to do.

"You think he's really going to do it, Sarge?" Nobby asked. He and Colon had a way of moving fast when there was a spectacle to be seen, even on the other side of the city.

"I don't know why he would." Colon couldn't seem to take his eyes away. "I mean, it's not like he gets depressed, right?"

"Right. Plus even if he did, he'd probably just make other poor sods jump off the roof. Don't see why he'd have to do it himself."

"Maybe not his roof, though," Colon suggested. "Seems a shame for people to commit suicide using the Palace roof."

"Then again, isn't the Palace a public building? Think of it like that, and it's kind of a surprise that more people don't use it."

Vimes appeared. He was not normally discreet, but this time the crowd was strangely pliant as he elbowed his way through. The silence was eerie. Not even Dibbler seemed to know what to do with himself; the street vendor was just standing there, holding a white t-shirt in one hand and a felt marker uncertainly in the other.

"It's actually true?" Vimes demanded of the sky. His voice rang in the silence. "What is he doing up there?"

"He is contemplating the city," Vetinari called down calmly. "Is that you, Sir Samuel? Drumknott was just reading me an article about how I pursued you with a certain garden implement. What was it, Drumknott?"

"A pair of shears, my Lord."

"Ah yes. I do apologize for that. I hope you are uninjured?"

"There were no shears," Vimes shouted up. "Now get down from that roof, because if I have to come up there and get you down myself, I can promise you _won't_ be uninjured."

"Hmm?" Vetinari asked, moving forward, apparently unconcerned with the tile that crumbled under his step.

"Not that way!" Vimes called, and then dashed forward taking the Palace stairs at a run.

"No? Ah well." Vetinari turned the white lamps of his eyes on Drumknott. "It's rather windy today, isn't it?"

* * *

The gates of Ankh-Morpork were never well secured; there was no need. Why invade, after all, when you would be welcomed in with open arms (or at least palms) if you brought with you the slightest shred of culture, innovation, or wealth?

An army of black-cloaked figures filed into the city under cover of night. The orderly rows moved swiftly beyond the lighting afforded by the gate lanterns and melded smoothly into the shadows beyond. A solitary cloak detached itself from the rear. It produced an extremely nervous pigeon, which took off for the Palace as soon as it was released. It was hard to imagine that all this activity could go on unobserved, but the streets were oddly quiet, as the shadows grew slightly larger with new occupants, and the moon drifted on overhead.


End file.
